Let us draw the shadows in close. Let us speak softly, as if the gods themselves were listening—not with wrath, but with the sorrow that only eternity can understand.

This is the story of Actaeon, the hunter. He was a prince of Thebes, swift of foot and sure of aim. The woods were his joy, the wilds his temple. No beast could outrun him. No stag could hide from his eye. He hunted not for hunger, but for honour—to test himself against the silence of nature, to hear the beat of his heart beside the rhythm of the leaves.

One day, in the heat of noon, his hunting party scattered through the forest. He walked alone, far from the others, until he came upon a glade where the air hung heavy. There, in a pool of spring-fed water, stood a goddess: Artemis, maiden of the moon, bathed in silver light even under the sun. She was naked. Unarmed, but no less divine. And Actaeon saw her. He did not cry out. He did not move. But the seeing was enough.

“Step not into the sacred shade,

Where gods walk bare, and vows are made.

One glimpse may cost the breath you keep—

The woods have eyes, and dreams that weep.”

Artemis turned. No scream. No flinching. Only a gaze cold enough to freeze rivers. She raised a hand.

“You saw what no mortal may see,” she said. “Let your eyes belong to the hunted now.”

And he was no longer a man. His arms shrank. His fingers split into hooves. His voice twisted into a stag’s silent cry. Fur burst across his back. Antlers crowned his skull. He turned to run—but from the trees came his own hounds. Faithful. Unknowing. They smelled the deer, not the man. They gave chase.

“Run, O prince, with silent breath,

Through forest halls toward bitter death.

No hunter now, but hunted prey—

And none shall know what you would say.”

He tried to call to them, but no words came. Only the heavy pant of a beast. They brought him down beneath the oaks, their teeth wet with loyalty. The forest fell quiet again. The goddess bathed once more. The pool rippled. And the tale passed into the leaves.

That is the story of Actaeon. Not of a man who sinned, but of a man who saw. And in seeing the divine, was unmade by it.